*Book 1*
*Completed but Editing*
Saphira Colby doesn't actually exist. The memories she comes up with, the family she describes and the appearance she takes on isn't real. It's a disguise. A disguise to hide the real her, the her that's being hunted...
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Chapter 24 "Lost in a Nightmare"
Saphira's POV:
"I'm sorry Myra, but I can't go to the party," I bore holes into my ceiling, not actually sorry I can't go. Well, don't want to go sounds more truthful, but my friends wouldn't take that as a valid excuse.
It's a Saturday afternoon with dark clouds and an empty house. I've got nothing else planned besides laying on my bed, music humming in my ears as I let the ceiling eat away at me.
"Come on, Saph," she groans, "you don't have to drink or dance or anything! Just come with the three of us and attend your first Perth party!"
I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. If I was ever going to be convinced to turn up to this party I'd need a damn good argument. Myra just did a sure job of making sure I don't turn up.
"Myra," I sigh, "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Tori and Emma, I'm not going to the party! I just got back from work and need to cook dinner for the remaining Johnson's. Plus, I need to finish the maths assignment."
It's a lie. No one else is in this house.
Generally when things like this happen, Myra and Tori are all over me; asking if I'm okay, if something has happened and other similar phrases. I'd always answer positively; I wouldn't let them help me even though I probably desperately needed it.
Today Myra just laughs softly and mutters a goodbye. Then she's gone.
My brow furrows, shoulders falling. I shouldn't be upset about it, but I can't help it. Routines are routines, and when they're broken you feel lost. It's unfair of me to wish Myra would ask if I'm okay, because I know I'd answer with the same thing I always do: I'm fine, I'm just tired, I'm alright.
I sigh again, curling my fingers uselessly around my phone. There's nothing on there to look at, no games to play and no social media to scroll through, but I do have music. I pull a pair of headphones over my ears, breathing easier as the silence ceases its screaming.
I press shuffle and turn off my phone, letting it fall by my side. Damien Rice mutters ominously in my ears and I bark a short laugh at the first words of '9 Crimes.' It seems even my music wants me to constantly think about dark and depressing things.
A disbelieving snort falls from my tongue when the song ends, only to start again. I don't bother turning off repeat, unable to bring myself to care about the universe's hatred of me.
